Moments
by Hanyoukai
Summary: [BanNatsumi] AU. He loathed her with a passion. She adored his music with a passion to rival his. And the world was about to self-destruct with the force of a supernova. (On Hold)
1. On a Grand Scale of Infinity

**M o m e n t s**

_By Hanyoukai_

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**Genre**: Parody/Romance 

**Rating**: PG-13 

**Summary**: (Ban/Natsumi) AU. He hated her with a passion. She loved his music with a passion to rival his. And the world was about to self-destruct with the force of a supernova. 

**Alternate Summary**: The music was haunting. It was evocative. And it was coming from _him_. 

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**Disclaimer**: Ban looks funny with his shirt ripped apart. I _like_ it. 

**Warning**: The author of this fanfic is _insane_. 

**A.N.**: Hiya! Yup, yup, I'm embarking on another story, in order to further my path to shaming the fanfiction world. _Heee_. 

Sniffle. This story was previously uploaded, but in an alcohol-induced state, I unwittingly removed it. Sob. I'm really, really sorry to those 11 reviewers whose reviews were accidentally deleted. 

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**O n e**

It was a Sunday. More specifically, the seventh day of the week of the seventh day of the month of the seventh month of the year. 

Not that has any significance whatsoever. 

On this singular summer day, the sun was _dead_. Or perhaps not dead, exactly. Maybe just taking a vacation to the closest nebula. You never know these things. Stars are such flighty, hot balls of gas. 

Anyway, let us pretend that the sun was dead. Truly and irrevocably so. 

Not that _that_ has any importance either. 

There was a bee. The bee lived in a hive. The hive was situated quite high up on a maple tree. The maple tree was dead. 

Alas, overcome with grief at losing such a close, intimate friend, the bee died, as well. 

And the hive was taken over by a hoard of homeless wasps, who, in the past, had found it rather difficult to get hold of a hive of their own, as there was a shortage of housing in the general wasp community. 

One bee in particular had even decided to form a commission, so that the issue of a lack in shelter could be further explored and, hopefully, resolved. It published an astoundingly perceptive report, which no other wasp actually read. 

The wasps got settled very nicely in their new home. 

Approximately five hundred ninety-eight decimal three two six six metres away, there was a shiny, silver coin lying just so on the asphalt ground. 

It was _very_ shiny. Almost to an extreme. Blinding, really. 

Not far, a brownish-black squirrel fell from a naked sakura tree, its furry, little brain so entranced, so completely mesmerized by the captivating, polished coin. 

It landed with a _kersplat_ on its furry, little brain. Which thereupon turned to neutron pudding, but not before one tiny paw stretched forward to desperately grasp the small, metallic object. 

Out of nowhere at all, a yak suddenly fell from the sky. Only to land right on top of the squirrel and the coin. 

_Crunch. Crack. Rumble._

That last sound was of the earth. The ground shook, the yak's sides jiggled, and the dead maple tree about five hundred ninety-eight decimal three two six six metres away toppled over, carelessly destroying the wasps' hive with it. 

And nothing in the world was quite the same afterward. 

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**T w o**

_Fizzz._

Natsumi loved the sound that a soda can made, when opened after being shaken delicately. It was a very nice, pleasant noise. One that made the insides of her ears go _pop_ in a very satisfying manner. 

Today, on the seventh day of the month of the seventh day of the year, Natsumi was remarkably happy. 

It was not just because she had gotten a promotion at work the past Friday. Or the fact that she was turning twenty-three in just two more days. No. It was rather because, during the night, her pet turtle had given birth to a whole clan of teeny-tiny baby turtles. 

_They_ also happened to enjoy the sound of a soft drink can being opened. 

So, after running short on soda cans that afternoon, Natsumi decided to run to the grocery store down the street to purchase a few more packs. 

It was a rather chilly day, despite it being the seventh month of the year. Since, quite unbeknownst to Natsumi and the rest of the human population (with the exception of the guy who always sat at the exact same park bench every day of the year, whose ranting nobody ever bothered to pay much attention to), the sun had died. 

Sadly, its obituary had only been crudely scratched into the oak finishing of an obscure corner of the decrepit bench. 

She shrugged into her heavy, winter coat, strapped on wool mittens and a scarf, and stepped into a pair of tall, pink boots with fluffy pompoms. 

Natsumi had cold feet. 

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**T h r e e**

_Aargh._

This very same day, the seventh day of the week of the seventh day of the month of the seventh day of the year, Ban was furious. 

It wasn't merely his customary 'you ate my pizza, you!' kind of angry. Or even his 'touch me one more time, Ginji, and I'll rip out your spleen' sort of anger. 

No. 

This **Rage** (note the capitalization of the first letter, made bold and underlined) went beyond parameters defined by the human mind, defying everything you've ever heard, read about or seen throughout your entire existence, with or without the influence of alcohol, hallucinogens, kitchen cleaning detergents, etc. 

One word. 

Really scary. 

Okay. So maybe that was two words. 

The point is that Ban was enraged. His eyes burned with anger. His clenched fists burned with anger. And his hair...well, that was just on fire. 

Except, nobody really knew why he was in such a state. It was something so completely shrouded in mystery that to ponder this formidable question, one would need to quite literally blow out one's brain and fill the skull with hydrogen peroxide. 

Indeed, this enigma was filed under the same category by the Organization of Philosophers With No Lives as 'Why doesn't milk taste like chicken?', and 'If milk tasted like chicken, would the digestive system fold itself inside out and implode?', as well as 'If a divine being exists, then why in God's name don't they sell giant Pocky in sports equipment stores?'. 

Anyway, the sun was dead. But Ban didn't particularly care. Or at least he wouldn't have if he had been aware of its demise. Not that anyone even reads the expiration dates of stars. 

Now, let's pretend that he _was_, after all, conscious of how the sun fell victim to a hit and run accident while on vacation, involving a tractor, an apple core, and a mutated baboon on an intergalactic highway express route. And that he was even bothered by it, albeit barely at all. 

So, because the world was coming to an end, he decided to play the violin, one last time. 

It was something from whence he derived particular satisfaction and pleasure. 

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**_To be continued..._**

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_A. N.: Did you notice? Did you, did you?! This is the very first story, in which I underlined a word!_


	2. A Very Merry Holiday

**M o m e n t s**

_By Hanyoukai_

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**Genre**: Parody/Romance 

**Rating**: PG-13 

**Summary**: (Ban/Natsumi) AU. He hated her with a passion. She loved his music with a passion to rival his. And the world was about to self-destruct with the force of a supernova. 

**Alternate Summary**: The music was haunting. It was evocative. And it was coming from _him_. 

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**Disclaimer**: _Mou_. I still think Makubex should have died. 

**Warning**: The author of this fanfic is not only insane, but incredibly stupid (or unbelievably drunk), as well. Sorry once again for accidentally deleting the story and reviews! And please don't think I don't value reviews, because I really, really do! 

**A.N.**: Merry Christmas (to those who celebrate it) and a Happy New Year, everyone! 

Thanks very much to everybody who reviewed! Actually, I've never heard of Terry Pratchett, but I guess I derive some inspiration from Stephen Walker, author of _Mr Landen Has No Brain_. A big thanks to Angel for lending it to me last year. 

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**F o u r**

An oversized neon sign of Santa Clause fell from the wall of the nearest department store building. 

"Ho, ho, ho!" it had cried, right before plunging to its death. 

Natsumi giggled, whipped out her digital camera from nowhere at all, and quickly snapped a picture. 

The cement below the smoking mass of fluorescent tubes and wiring creaked and groaned, and finally gave up its lifelong struggle of surviving being trampled on by thousands of pairs of pedestrian feet, only to disintegrate into a pinch of monosodium glutamate. 

Soon after, the wind carried the crystalline power to No-Man's Land, where a group of carnivorous penguins had themselves a rather glutinous banquet of vodka and fish, medium rare. 

Today was just getting better and better, Natsumi thought excitedly. 

The light bulb of a street lamp went out with a quiet _fizzz_, but not before toasting a moth extra crispy and golden brown. A crow flew past, and caught it in its beak. 

Natsumi squealed gleefully as a snowflake landed on her nose, and giggled some more. 

Then, becoming bored of standing in the middle of a deserted street (_where the hell was everybody, anyway?_ she asked herself spontaneously), with only a wannabe version of a massacred, red and green glowing bomb to keep her company, Natsumi continued onward, on her trek to her Ultimate Destination. 

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**F i v e**

The temperature was precisely negative one hundred and fifteen degrees Celsius, and dropping fast. 

Grapefruit-sized chunks of ice, with a twenty-three percent concentration of dirt particles, fell selectively from the obscurity known previously as the sky, creating meteor-like dents on the hard, glacial ground. 

The entire population of penguins and seals in the region whimpered pathetically inside their snow igloos, trying to keep up their spirits and body temperatures, even while being deprived of the monthly shipment of vodka from their cousins in the northern hemisphere, which had not arrived on schedule. 

Incredibly enough, their current, and so very tragic, deprivation of alcohol had never once occurred since the Second World War, when the entire continent of Antarctica was cast in anti-vodka sentiments, leading to much turbulence and animosity. 

"_NAARRR_!" screeched one, impossibly traumatized seal, prior to falling victim to a seizure, due to a never-before-felt condition of severe vasoconstriction. 

Question marks popped forth from the minds of many of the Antarctic animals. 

Two thousand four hundred thirty-nine kilometres to the north, the missing deliveryman was currently lying, rather dead, beneath an imported Bombardier snowmobile. 

Just ten seconds before, he was happily taking a swig out of one of the many bottles he was transporting. Now, the world was rid of Haruki Emishi forever. Insert dramatic accordion music. 

Above the corpse, straddling the snowmobile, was a very wasted Hevn, who ended up at the South Pole after getting lost during her voyage to Greenland. 

Oops, she thought blearily (but not very apologetically), before passing out on a pile of whale blubber, some of the monosodium glutamate drifting down from her fake eyelashes. 

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**S i x**

Back in Japan, Natsumi had almost finished eating a packet of Strawberry Pocky, which she always kept in her front pocket for dire emergencies. 

Then, in mid-chew, she stopped. For situated underneath her pom-pom boots was the squishy brain of a squirrel that was now nothing more than common road-kill. 

_Ughn, yuck_. Natsumi pulled out her day-to-day agenda, and reminded herself a week from now to call the police about the possibility of a serial killer of rodents being on the loose. 

"_Croak_," went a very confused yak, and stamped its hooves several times to speed up the circulation of lymphocytes in its bloodstream. It had caught a nasty virus from a very disagreeable flea a few days ago. 

The dry, old sakura tree shook its bare branches mysteriously, which then jarred awake many of the inhabiting termites. They opened their sharp, little mouths and gnarled threateningly. 

Soon to follow were a series of mind-numbing events that would incorrigibly rock the very foundation of Natsumi's world, at least until she bought herself a nuclear shield. 

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**Seven**

A beautiful melody wafted toward Natsumi at the speed of sound, the notes circling around and around her head psychotically. 

The yak went _oink_, the mashed squirrel twitched a single time, before dying for _real_ this time, and Natsumi dived nose first in love. 

_A while later..._

There was _nothing_ quite like it, decided Natsumi loyally, as she trekked five hundred ninety-eight decimal three two six six metres toward the source of the hauntingly evocative music, abandoning once and for all her trip to the grocery store. 

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**_To be continued..._**

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_A. N.: Thanks for reading, and please review...again if necessary!_


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